


Tuesday the 17th

by copperbadge



Series: Writer In A Drawer 2009 [3]
Category: Torchwood
Genre: Anger, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Healing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-09-30
Updated: 2009-09-30
Packaged: 2017-12-22 12:52:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/913434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/copperbadge/pseuds/copperbadge
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ianto and Jack begin to reach an understanding in the aftermath of Cyberwoman.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tuesday the 17th

**Author's Note:**

> Written for round 8 of writerinadrawer. Warnings for pre-show canonical character death. 
> 
> Theme: Use a title from Psych, the TV show; added element, one fruit and one vegetable  
> Word Count: Less than 1000  
> Score: 2 (+3, -1)

"Going somewhere?"

Halfway out the front door to his flat, Ianto started skittishly and dropped his keys. He turned, door still open behind him, to find Jack Harkness standing on the landing. Jack had his hands shoved in his pockets and was gazing at him with a sort of slow serenity that missed nothing. 

Well, not anymore, anyway.

"Just to the shops," Ianto muttered, bending to pick up his keys. "No food in the place."

Jack tilted his head slightly to look around him -- shit, the door was still open -- 

"Yes, I see," he said, taking in the wreckage of the flat, the smashed glass and crockery, the books lying where they'd been thrown, the blind on the window dangling crazily from one bracket. Jack cocked an eyebrow at him. "Out of bananas?"

"Spinach," Ianto replied. 

"It seems to inspire violence, not getting enough iron," Jack remarked, nodding at the mayhem. 

"Why are you here, Jack?" Ianto asked, losing his patience. He hadn't seen the man for days and Torchwood could get fucked for all he cared; they'd killed his girlfriend, _three times_ if you counted London, which had to be some kind of record. And then Jack had sent him off without even doing him the courtesy of executing or retconning him. 

_Execute her or I'll execute you both_ , hadn't he said? But Ianto hadn't shot Lisa. And Jack hadn't shot Ianto. And now here they were. 

Jack looked down, managed to make eye contact for a moment, looked away again. 

"Let's talk inside," he said. 

"I don't -- " Ianto began.

"Look, you think I never trashed a place?" Jack asked, and seemed to think that was a valid argument. 

Inside, glass crunched under Jack's boots as he walked to the window. Ianto stood near the half-empty bookcase and waited. He'd been pulling Lisa's books off the shelf; he noticed he'd missed two. He wondered what would happen if he just picked them up and threw them now.

Eh. Moment had passed.

Jack turned around -- oh, his dramatic coat, swirling against his legs -- and got that look on his face. The one that said he had intended to say something deep and meaningful, and was now being forced to replace it on the fly. 

"How are you?" he asked.

Ianto gestured at the mark on the wall where the hideous glass...swan...thing (gift from Lisa's mother) had impacted before shattering.

"I've been better," he said. 

"Get it out of your system?" Jack asked. 

"My girlfriend's dead. You don't _get it out of your system_ ," Ianto snapped. Silence. He reached out and tilted one of Lisa's books off the shelf, letting it fall. Jack stared at it with disconcerting focus. 

"I'm sorry," he said, as if that was going to help. Then he looked up again. "When did she die?"

Ianto stared at him in disbelief. Jack's face was so carefully blank. If he was playacting the role of an ignorant friend, ready to offer condolences, Ianto really was going to kill him bare-handed right here. Jack was big but he wasn't invulnerable. 

But -- no, that wasn't what Jack was doing. He was looking for an answer. And Ianto was not a _good_ liar; he was just good at not inspiring questions he'd have to lie to answer. Jack would know if he were lying. 

"On a Tuesday," Ianto said. "The seventeenth."

"Where was that?" Jack asked, soft, almost predatory.

"Torchwood Tower, Canary Wharf, London," Ianto mumbled, studying the remains of a coffee mug (Lisa's favourite). "A few months ago."

When he looked up, there was something very close to sympathy in Jack's face. He considered picking up the last of Lisa's books off the shelf and throwing it at him. 

"This," Jack said, sweeping a hand, taking in the littered floor, the broken blind, the books, "this is okay. You're angry because a monster took someone you loved, and you're trapped here, and I get that. You have no idea how much I get that, Ianto."

What did one say to something like that? 

"But you understand what happened, I think, now that -- " another gesture at the mess. "People who are angry at me don't generally take it out on...is that a Hummel boy?" he asked, crouching to gather up some chips of porcelain. 

Lisa had bought the Hummel figurine for him during a trip, as a gift. She had, very clearly, picked out the most hideous, awkward one she could find, a little boy dressed like a chimneysweep with a look of constipated frustration on his face. He had exploded quite remarkably when hurled against the coffee table. 

"Well, it _was_ ," Ianto said, and let a short hysterical laugh escape before he'd realised it. Jack, half the figurine's arm between his fingers, glanced up. The sharp knowledge in his eyes made Ianto cover his face. 

To his credit, Jack didn't try to console him or give him a hug or anything mortifying like that. He did pull Ianto's hands down and replace them, in a way, with his own -- thumbs along his cheekbones, fingers tilting his jaw up just a little.

"Take your time," he said. "Grieve, okay? When you're ready, you still have a job if you want it."

He was almost gone -- at the door, already halfway through it, when Ianto turned and called out, "Why?"

Jack paused, then looked back.

"Tuesday the seventeenth," he said. "That was the right answer."


End file.
